


someone usually dies

by brodinsons (aeon_entwined)



Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-21
Updated: 2012-11-21
Packaged: 2017-11-19 04:40:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/569202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeon_entwined/pseuds/brodinsons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set prior to Bond's exploits in <i>Casino Royale</i> and before he gains his status as 007. Tiago Rodriguez is M's favored double-o and as such, she saddles him with keeping an eye on the up-and-coming Bond. His latest assignment proves to be far more interesting than he originally estimated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	someone usually dies

James Bond is no different than a great deal of the prospective double-o's.

Arrogant. Ruthless. Efficient. Eager to please and yet still quite content to tell management to bugger off if he doesn't feel like playing by their rules anymore.

Whenever he does drop off the map for a few weeks, he always resurfaces in the most unexpected places, almost as if taunting the handlers back at HQ. Tiago remains uninvolved, for the most part. He fades into the shadows and laughs to himself while the suits scramble about and try to look as though they know what they're doing.

MI6 likes to fool itself into thinking it's a center of control. In reality, it sends living time bombs out into the world in the hopes that they'll neutralize the other countries' time bombs before the fuse detonates on their own boys.

Tiago has been sitting on his double-o status for nearly a year, and as such, M has seen fit to appoint him as Bond's unofficial supervisor. Crock of bullshit, that is. He's the one supposed to keep Bond from getting himself killed. She's gotten too fond of the jumped up little shit, he can see it already. There are certain ones she favors above others. He's lucky to be counted among those ranks and he knows it.

It's because she trusts them. She doesn't trust everyone. In fact, she hardly trusts anyone at all, even the suits working the inner circles of Britain's top secret intelligence forces.

"Tiago."

He blinks once, then retrains his gaze on the stern woman sitting behind her desk.

"Sorry, mummy," Tiago offers his most charming smile and leans back in his own seat, working the stiffness out of his spine. "You were saying?"

She narrows her cool grey eyes at him, but chooses to overlook the blatant fact that he hadn't been paying attention to her briefing at all. "Bond's in over his head. At this point, I'm wondering if he even recalls that he's contracted to a time-sensitive mission, let alone that excess relations with civilians not involved in the situation are strictly prohibited."

Tiago laughs at that, then drags a hand through his dark hair. "You know him better than I do. He likes thinking with that other brain of his."

M rolls her eyes, but slides his debrief folder across the desk at him regardless. "No wonder I assigned the two of you together. You're like parasites, the both of you. Feeding off each other and giving me headaches. Now go on, get out of here."

After swiftly abandoning his chair, Tiago sweeps into a low bow, as though having just finished a triumphant opening night at the West End. "A pleasure, mum, as always."

He barely manages to squeak out the heavy door of her office without getting a pen thrown at him.

~~~

And that's how he finds himself stepping onto the tarmac of what could just barely be qualified as an airport in the middle of the less populated Bahamas.

The resort that Bond has been planted at is about as remote as you can get, though that just makes it all the more appealing for obscenely rich people with more money in their pockets than they know what to do with. Or, alternatively, international terrorists staking out their next target with credit linked to their bosses. Who happen to be obscenely rich. It's a bad business any way you slice it, really.

Sure, he's not on their side, but that doesn't make him any more righteous. Bond maybe even less so. They're all killers thrown into a massive arena and set loose on each other to see which side kills the other first.

As he approaches the front desk, Tiago offers the young woman in a prim blouse and attractively long blonde hair staffing it a cordial smile.

"Checking in?"

"Yes," he leans one arm on the countertop, keeping his expression friendly and open. "Jonathan Donne."

After scrolling down her computer monitor, she nods, and moves to print out his itinerary. While she goes about her official business, Tiago slides his gaze from her to the open door leading into what appears to be the bar, and beyond that, the beach. The weather is unspeakably nice, for someone who spends most of his time in dreary old London, and the water looks almost too inviting.

A quiet clearing of a feminine throat draws his attention back to the front desk and he offers an apologetic smile. "The view is marvelously distracting," he laughs to himself, scrawling his false signature across the page-long receipt before handing it back to her and taking his own copy from beside it. "Thanks very much."

Room key acquired, he sets up shop.

Within half an hour, he's managed to rig the room in more ways than Q-Branch probably believes possible (he'll have to test that theory later) and still have time left over to spy on Bond.

The other agent's room is on the opposite side of the establishment from his own, which gives him a chance to scope out what sort of situation they're going to be up against. The dossier he read on the flight over was minimal at best, but it seems Bond has either been slacking or has been lying in wait for the terrorist to make his move.

Knowing Bond, it's a combination of the two.

Terrorists have this nasty habit of not behaving the way you need them to in order to get your job done properly.

Bond isn't in his room, so Tiago ambles into the outdoor bar and orders a martini so he can have something to do while figuring out just where his quarry has gotten to.

He takes three sips of his drink before his gaze is drawn down the beach, where he can just make out what appears to be a scuffle taking place in the underbrush. The distant (and hardly identifiable) sound of an automatic handgun unloading reaches his ears mere seconds later and Tiago is on his feet without thinking twice. He deposits his martini on the bartop and leaves the milling guests to their pleasantly violence-free existences.

There's a clear line to the confrontation through the trees so he follows that, intent on staying out of their line of sight until the last possible moment.

Judging by the shorn blonde hair on the one closest to him, dressed in casual fatigues and a horribly tacky tourist shirt, it's definitely Bond. The other one is wearing a sleek suit and doesn't seem too happy about getting it all mucked up.

Tiago draws his Glock from the shoulder holster tucked beneath his jacket, holding it firm in both hands while he awaits a viable opportunity to neutralize the target. Bond goes down hard in the packed sand, which Nice Suit follows up with a rather nasty elbow to the small of Bond's back. Tiago takes the shot.

It catches Nice Suit in the knee, and he drops like a sack of potatoes. Bond raises his head, dazed and not a little confused.

Tiago merely raises the Glock to his brow and offers a sarcasm-laden salute. Bond rolls his eyes, but there's a flare of gratitude that anyone not intimately trained to read human behavior would miss completely.

He melts into the shadows while Bond collects himself and drags their target off for some persuasive questioning. If there's one thing about Bond, it's that he can get the answers he wants with minimal fuss. Whether the interogatees feel the same way remains to be seen.

With his Glock tucked safely back into its holster beneath his suit jacket, Tiago ambles back to the resort, winding his way through the patrons and settling himself at the bar once again. This time, he orders a vodka, on the rocks. He isn't looking to get drunk. Mostly just looking to relax, if possible. One target is neutralized, but as M suggested, there are likely accomplices in the vicinity. Hell, he could be staring another one in the eye across the bar and he wouldn't know it until the other guy made a move.

Tiago stays at the bar until the sun begins settling low on the horizon, then vacates his perch to retreat to his room. The resort itself is filled almost to capacity, which makes any sort of legitimate stakeout both a blessing and a right pain in the ass. While you have the innate camouflage of the dozens of guests milling around you, that also broadens your target field to an annoying degree. There's also the messy business of civilians getting caught in the crossfire of a potential shootout. No matter who starts it, they always get messy.

Thankfully, there is no one in the hall leading to his room. He enjoys the quiet, focusing on the distant lap of the waves on the beach. Unfortunately, the somewhat idyllic calm is shattered as soon as he approaches his door.

The lock is broken, the handle dangling at an awkward angle. There's nothing subtle about it. Someone obviously knew he was here and they intended to do something about it.

"Puto infierno," he mutters, drawing his automatic and flattening his shoulder to the wall.

The door is cracked ajar and he listens through the space, trying to discern if someone is waiting directly behind it. There's no sounds he can pick up, not even a distracted exhale. After waiting a minute, he carefully edges the door open, leading with his sidearm as he steps into the room.

Immediately greeting him is the prone form of what appears to be Nice Suit's cohort, splayed out on the carpet. There's a nice little pool of blood spreading out from beneath the poor bastard's head, and that's when Tiago hears the distinct sound of a crystal glass being placed on a wooden surface.

He swings his gun up, aiming towards the doorway leading to the adjoining balcony. As he edges closer, he can see a dark figure outlined against the fading sunset. An inch closer and the familiar profile comes into view. Tiago breathes slowly through his nose as a slow grin quirks his lips.

As Bond raises the glass to his lips, Tiago places the muzzle of his sidearm against the back of Bond's head.

"That's my scotch you're drinking."

Bond goes completely still, though he smiles once he recognizes the cadence of the voice. "Really. And here I thought it belonged to whoever happened to be occupying the room."

Tiago locks the safety on his sidearm, then slips it back inside his jacket, moving to stand beside his compatriot against the balcony's railing.

"Well, it seems Mummy will be pleased to know you've actually been doing your job," Tiago wets his lips, then angles a sideways leer at Bond. "And it looks as though thanks aren't really necessary. We've payed each other back in full."

Bond snorts, an eyeroll audible even with his profile mostly angled away. Touchy one, he is.

Tiago gives him a proper slap on the back of the shoulder, then turns to re-enter his suite. "So long as we don't have too many loose ends to get tied up, we'll be out of here soon enough. Now go on, scat. Some of us need our beauty sleep."

He begins divesting himself of his suit jacket and button-down shirt, methodically placing his holster and sidearm in their proper locations on the dresser. By the time he gets down to his underwear, Bond still hasn't left. Tiago would normally chalk it up to the little bastard getting his brooding act on, but that doesn't seem to be the case. Bond's just out there, staring at the shoreline.

No matter. He'll just flush him out with bad telenovelas on the limited television channels available through the resort.

Tiago steps out of his undershorts, then turns to gauge how much longer he'll be playing terrible host. He finds Bond standing in the doorway, observing his every move.

If there is one thing Tiago Rodriguez isn't, that would be self-conscious. So, he merely offers a slow grin, making no move to cover himself or turn away.

"Like what you see, Bond?"

Bond's piercing blue eyes rake over his form, and Tiago thinks he may very well have to give M a more substantial Christmas gift this year for having saddled him with this particular jumped-up little shit.

He steps forward at the same time Bond does, and they meet in the middle.

Tiago's hands cup firmly against Bond's nape, holding him still while they devour each other's mouths. Bond, meanwhile, seems insistent on getting his hands on every part of Tiago's body that he can possibly reach while still remaining locked together at the lips. He can feel Bond's roughened palms tracing restless patterns down his back, over his flanks, back up his spine, then up into his hair. Bond tangles his fingers in the brunette strands and Tiago snarls when he thinks to pull.

_Poco mocoso._

He bites down on Bond's lower lip in retaliation, hard enough for the tang of iron to flood over both their tongues. They pull apart with a gasp.

Bond's eyes are wide and dark, the pupils ringed by a faint hint of glacial blue. Tiago reaches out instinctively, making quick work of Bond's shirt and slacks, then jerking him towards the bed, shoving him flat onto the mattress before crawling up after him.

They wrestle among the sheets for a few moments, matched nearly pound for pound until Tiago uses his several inch height advantage to wrench Bond's arm behind his back and force him down onto his front.

For several minutes, the sound of their ragged indrawn breaths is all that exists in the room. The sun has completely set, allowing for the more temperate lighting from outdoor lamps to filter in through the windows, casting silvery shafts of light over their bodies.

"Have you ever had a man before, James?" Tiago growls softly, his lips pressed against the shell of Bond's ear, hoping to rile him just a little more with the use of his given name.

Bond thrashes once, then relents, going pliant beneath his weight. "Yes."

Tiago shivers minutely, pressing his hips down against Bond's and grinding the hardening curve of his cock against the cleft of Bond's ass. Bond curls his lip back and bares his teeth in response.

Tiago laughs throatily, slipping his free hand beneath Bond's arm and stroking his neck. "Open your mouth, James."

It takes several tries, but he finally manages to slip three fingers between Bond's lips, rubbing and teasing the warm wetness of his tongue. Bond does bite down on his fingers a few times, which earns him a further twist of the arm already held tight behind his back. He does eventually get on board with it, curling his tongue and suckling on the digits with enthusiastic abandon that impresses even Tiago's libido.

Once he deems the job satisfactory, Tiago pulls his hand away, then splays his fingers in front of Bond's face. "Lick."

With a disgruntled growl, Bond does as he's ordered, laving Tiago's palm with the flat of his tongue until it's properly wet. That done, he pulls it away, slipping his hand between their bodies and down Bond's legs. He rubs his palm against Bond's inner thighs, then gives his cock several pulls, slicking himself as best he can given the circumstances.

"We're going to do this properly, next time," Tiago growls, canting his hips and thrusting into the tight space afforded by the apex of Bond's legs. "Close your legs."

Surprisingly, Bond does exactly as ordered without a word of protest. Tiago thrusts again, the friction eased by the sweat and spit gathered on Bond's skin and his own. It's not perfect, by any means, but given their situation at present, it's better than nothing.

"Have you ever been fucked, James?" Tiago's lips press firmly against the shell of Bond's ear, prompting a full-body shudder that wracks them both. "Flayed apart from the inside out?"

There's the shake of a head, followed by a drawn-out snarl. Oh .. this will be _delightful_. For one and all.

"Always done the fucking but never thought to turn the tables," Tiago begins thrusting into the tight channel provided by Bond's clenched legs at an even more rapid tempo, panting harshly against his ear. "I can fix that."

The arm twisted behind his back tenses, and Tiago feels Bond's fist clench against his sternum. With a low rumble of pleasure, he worms his free hand beneath Bond's body, dextrous fingers closing around the rigid line of his cock.

"That's it, James, that's it," Tiago croons breathlessly, thrusting between Bond's legs with abandon as Bond squirms and writhes against him, humping near-desperately into his hand and against the sheets.

Bond is such an animal when it comes to the baser instincts of humanity. He takes what he wants. God help anyone who thinks to get in his way. Witnessing this exuberant display firsthand is intoxicating.

The beginnings of his orgasm curl lazily in his belly, winding out towards the base of his spine. It's a lovely little drug, the rush of endorphins. Tiago traces his tongue around the shell of Bond's ear, delighting in the shiver it earns him. He thrusts a bit harder, rocking the bed enough for the headboard to give several dull _thunks_ against the wall. He can feel Bond growing tense beneath him, chasing his own orgasm to the very peak.

When the roaring in his ears begins, Tiago speeds the tempo, then fists his hand around Bond's cock.

"Ven, James," his voice pitches impossibly low as he thrusts one more time between Bond's legs. "Ven."

On his order, Bond's spine bows and he comes spectacularly, a low moan ripping its way out of his throat as he bucks and rides out the aftershocks.

Watching Bond fall apart beneath him is a lovely power trip. Especially after having finally brought the cocky upstart down a peg or two. Tiago growls through his teeth and thrusts violently between Bond's legs, charging headlong over the peak of his own release. He sinks his teeth into the meat of Bond's shoulder, prompting a startled yell of both surprise and pain.

As the starbursts dappling his vision begin to fade, Tiago relaxes his jaw, then licks at the slightly bloodied skin beneath his lips, soothing the broken skin. It'll be nicely bruised come morning. He'd very much like to see that.

Then, he releases his hold on Bond's arm, which flops dramatically onto the mattress beside their heaving bodies.

Tiago rolls off Bond, sprawling indulgently onto his back and dragging both hands through his sweat-soaked hair. He glances over as he catches his breath, and smiles at Bond's properly fucked-out expression.

"I look forward to the next time," he croons softly, reaching over and dabbing a bit of excess saliva off the corner of Bond's mouth with the pad of his thumb before sliding out of bed and ambling towards the adjoining bath and shower.

He turns the faucet on, then glances over his shoulder as he waits for the water to warm. Bond is already levering himself out of bed, slowly collecting his various pieces of clothing.

Tiago smirks, then turns back to the task at hand. He pulls the shower nozzle, then steps into the stall as near-scalding water jets out of the showerhead.

When he glances once more into the bedroom, Bond is gone. Tiago laughs.

_Until tomorrow._

**Author's Note:**

> Translations:
> 
> \+ _Puto infierno_ \- "fucking hell"  
>  \+ _Poco mocoso_ \- "little brat"  
>  \+ _ven_ \- affirmative imperative of "come"
> 
> At this point in time, Tiago looks very much like [THIS](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mdp72ibkqC1rcjmcio1_500.jpg).
> 
> So! As a longtime fan of the 007 franchise (I've seen all the films, read the novels, and am currently very much enjoying Craig's turn), I decided it was time to try my hand at fic'ing the bastard.
> 
> The only ship I've found myself really invested in with this mythos is Alec Trevelyan/James, which I think really contributed to my love for these two. Alec and Tiago share a lot of traits (as well as similar stories). And what can I say ... I have a weakness for the good agent gone rogue trope. It works really well in both of their cases!
> 
> I hope you guys enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing!


End file.
